


a shortcut home

by andsmile



Series: hard things break [4]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Archie Andrews Needs a Hug, Core Four No More, EIGHT YEARS LATER, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Varchie!Centric, mentions of canon mess, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:26:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26683642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andsmile/pseuds/andsmile
Summary: Somewhere in this city is a road I know where we could make it, but maybe there's no making it now.or,eight years later, archie keeps trying.
Relationships: Archie Andrews/Veronica Lodge
Series: hard things break [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1742893
Comments: 21
Kudos: 39





	a shortcut home

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I can't thank you guys enough for all the support in these very depressing series as I make crazy attempts to fix what the writers will most definitely not do right. It took me long enough to write this one, because I was waiting for the right time, and well, seeing the first bit of Varchie behind-the-scenes last week was the right time.
> 
> This piece works with the premise that Archie spent 4 years in the Naval Academy, 3 years serving overseas. It starts when his time as a Reservist begins--it spans roughly through his first year and a half back. This is a lot more Archie focused than anything. I'm using Already Gone and For You, I Was a Flame as canon outlines.
> 
> Thank you, Katie, for helping me figure out the timeline. Recommended songs (!) here are: Lifehouse - It Is What It Is (title) and obviously, Lord Huron - The Night We Met.
> 
> I will write one more installment to these series and it will be the final one. For now, get your tissues lol. Love you guys!
> 
> A&V Forever!

“a man takes his sadness down the river and throws it in the river, but he’s still left with the river. a man takes his sadness and throws it away, but he’s still left with his hands.”

(robert siken)

.

.

.

There’s only one thing Archie Andrews is certain of: people are fascinated by scars.

Through the years, it's the only thing that he can find in common in them—every woman he’s ever slept with has traced their fingers over the marks on his skin, especially the ones in his chest. Every stranger has pretended not to stare. Every kid got curious. The guys in the quarters all have some and they exchange stories proudly, like they were badges of honor and bravery, amusement in their undertone despite it getting darker and darker— _I was drunk and stupid, hit my chin in the pool—I got this one in Detroit, a kid with a blade_ — _this one? a chick I used to date, dude, she was batshit crazy_ — _yeah, I fought back, but my stepfather had a knife._

Archie always listens to the stories quietly, sometimes laughs, and says _wow_. But the stories about _his_ scars are some tale that goes untold to the people around him. The women he tries to distract with something else. The guys just don’t really care, more interested in their own narratives, and to the kids, he says something equally dumb and informative, _always look where you’re going_ — _our heads aren’t as hard as we think they are._

He doesn’t tell his stories because he doesn’t want to think about them. He doesn’t want to remember the burn of skin getting ripped apart, or the smell of blood spilling out, or the sound of bones cracking. He doesn’t _have_ to think about any of it, not anymore—he’s learned how to beat these demons into oblivion.

He’s taken the pills. He’s attended the sessions.

If much, the scars are just there to remind him that there _is_ a story, and that he’s survived it.

.

.

.

He moves to New York City in the fall. There’s some furniture kept for him in a storage unit back in Riverdale—things his mom kept after selling the house on Elm Street and moving back to Chicago with Brooke—but there’s no plan or place for the furniture yet. There’s just _him_ , flying back from Guam, now a US Navy Reservist, his skin permanently freckled from three years under the strong sun in the Western Pacific, carrying not much but the green rucksack that matches his green shirt as the leaves turn brown.

His first three months back in America are, weirdly, not spent with his family, but in Josie McCoy’s shoebox flat in the East Village, a place she doesn’t visit so often anymore, not after moving in with her boyfriend. The whole thing is sort of arranged by Mary and Mr. Keller, and Archie doesn’t really get a say in it, doesn’t even try.

He sleeps off his jet lag in the first couple of days and just takes notice of the surroundings on the third: box of tea forgotten in an empty kitchen cabinet, a rack full of colorful and patterned fabrics, high heeled shoes with leopard print under the coffee table.

On the fourth day, he ventures outside the flat into the buzz and the noise to do groceries and laundry. On the fifth, he cleans up and makes the place a little more habitable, keeps Josie’s shit in one part of her wardrobe, occupies the other parts with his shit.

The group chats on his phone, at first, are filled with pictures from his colleagues reencountering their families, their kids, their significant others. Good morning wishes and memes.

It all stops coming as the days pass by. Archie leaves the groups that stay way too long without saying something. _Letting go_ was one of the biggest themes of the past few years of his life, and he does it without much thought, grateful for the good times he spent with those people, serving his country.

A week in, he gets the call and the job that was already arranged for him by Mr. Keller, a site in Hoboken that somehow Andrews Construction landed, and all he needs to do at first is break rocks and carry them around, drink beers with the guys after six.

They all want to know about his time in Guam, his opinions on US politics like they matter; want to see what’s written on his dog tags. They want to know about his scars. Archie buys them another beer, asks about the song playing.

The guys at work love him. He’s their best buddy. They always say, _of course, you’d be a universal donor,_ and _hey Andrews, hot ass staring at you, four o’clock,_ and that’s how he takes someone to his ex-maybe-girlfriend’s place for the first time, mouths gasping, bodies pressed into the mattress, a fistful of hair that he pulls when he comes.

Her name is June. Archie thinks it’s a nice name, but June is his least favorite month. He kisses her again when she asks him about the scar in his chest. He doesn’t say that he’ll call her.

It takes him a few weeks, but soon he can pride himself on getting used to his new life, and it’s like he didn’t exist before living in New York. Like his years in Guam happened to someone else and, most importantly, like Riverdale happened to someone else, and he’s just another commuter trying to navigate the intricate subway system of the busiest city in the world.

.

.

.

It’s Kevin who reaches out first.

Brown leaves are crackling under his feet when Archie’s phone rings and his childhood friend's voice coming through the line is one that he didn’t expect. He thought it’d be Josie—wanting the shoes back—if anyone, but it’s Kevin, and Archie doesn’t have it in him to say _no_ when he invites Archie out for drinks over the weekend.

It’s not the first time he’ll meet someone from Riverdale. He’s seen Moose a few times through the years during military functions, shared happy memories with him, from Bulldog games and house parties. Oddly enough, or maybe not, the only one from the old days who stayed in his life is Reggie—in fact, it was Reggie who got him back on his feet, _that summer_ —and Archie has steadily kept in touch with his old teammate, one of the few people in his contact list who didn’t get deleted or archived after some silence. Reggie got married very young, for some reason. He even attended Reggie’s first bachelor party, before wife number one turned into ex-wife number one. He couldn’t go to the second bachelor party, but wife number two seems to be sticking around.

In all their meetings, they never once mentioned _her_ , no matter how drunk, no matter how reminiscent. They don’t talk about the girl that once bound them together. It’s an unspoken agreement, one that Archie is grateful for.

He’s nervous about seeing Kevin, though, for some reason. Kevin hits closer to home, he supposes, the sometimes needed fifth element of their tumbled fortress of four.

It gets easier when the anticipation passes and they actually meet outside the pub chosen by Kevin—his eyes are kind and familiar, and Archie feels happy when they hug, happy when they sit down to catch up. Kevin still has that same old element pouring out of him, but there’s a lot of lost hope too—no matter what the songs said, it’s hard to make it in the city, it’s hard to live up to the dream.

Archie shares stories about his time serving in Guam that he doesn’t even hold so dear inside of him, but Kevin likes to hear them, laughs easily. They drink to Fred’s memory and talk about Andrews Construction, how it thrived under Tom Keller’s command, and Kevin jokes that they’re blood brothers because of that— _wouldn’t that be weird, since you dated Josie a hundred years ago?_

He tells him about Josie, about how her and Alex seem to be the perfect pair, performing here and there, running an independent record for bands with little to no opportunity. Archie is happy that she’s happy—she’s always deserved success, always worked hard for it, harder than many he’s met.

Feels like a million years since music had such an important role in his life. He hasn’t picked up a guitar since high school.

Archie almost goes through the night unscathed, but another round turns into another round, and suddenly, the subject is rolling out of Kevin’s tongue. “Jughead moved to London, last I heard of. His books sold really well. They’re… Interesting. Especially the first one.” Kevin’s eyebrows raise towards his hairline. “He won some prizes.”

Archie had seen Jughead’s published work in airports around the world through the years, paperback novels written by J. Jones III, his picture on the back cover, beanie long gone. He’d stare at his former best friend’s black and white picture in-between flights, throat tight, but he never bought the books. He was never much of a reader, anyway.

The last time he’d spoken to Jughead was about three years ago, just after moving to Guam. Homesickness used to be a thing in Archie’s first few months overseas. Only God knows why, but in those first few months, Jughead’s professional Facebook page got suggested to Archie, who toyed with the idea of following it before giving in and reaching out via direct message. He wrote, _Hey Jug, happy to see your stuff is doing well_ as if they’d never been roommates and brothers, as if he’d never stomped on his trust and his heart, and J. Jones III answered _Thanks, man_.

Archie took about two years to delete those messages.

“I really thought he and Betty were going to make it, the second time,” Kevin keeps on talking. “They tried again, you know? About a year ago, before the whole moving to England thing happened. I’m still not sure what went down… I mean, besides the obvious. Betty never really told me.”

Betty.

The liquor burns Archie’s stomach.

 _Betty_ , the last girl he wrote a song for, the place where his feet fell after Veronica left his house _that summer_ , nothing but two halves of a golden heart behind. He wandered to Betty’s front door because _where else_ would he go, so ashamed and disgusted with himself? _Who else_ would understand? _Whose light_ would he follow after his entire world turned to darkness?

Betty took him in, him and his tight chest and uneven breathing. _It’s over,_ he still remembers saying between the sharp inhales, _she’s gone, it’s over, we’re over, she hates me, it’s over, she’s gone,_ until Betty was screaming, _oh, my God, Arch, you have to breathe, calm down, calm down, breathe_.

The next day, Reggie drove him to his first appointment.

Archie remembers very little from _that summer_ , those days filled with nightmares and panic attacks that’d make him so tired, so exhausted, but he does remember how Betty sat by his bed one morning, took his hand, and said, “You and I, we are going to get better. And we are going to be happy, Arch.”

She gave him a kiss on his temple, and touched the scar between his eyebrows, a tender smile on her lips, and left. He didn’t hear from her again, not directly, not willingly. He didn’t look her up. He missed her for a while, yes, the soft comfort her presence provided him, a puzzle that often seemed to fall into place at the sight of her blonde ponytail.

But Betty was the first thing Archie managed to let go of. She was also, maybe not so surprisingly, the easiest.

“I’m sorry they didn’t work out,” he says, genuinely, downing another splash of bourbon. He knows that deep down, there’s a part of him that isn’t sorry, not even a bit—some ugly feeling that the alcohol pulls from the depths of his soul, something similar to what he’s felt in his sophomore year, a jealousy directed at Betty and Jughead getting to be happy while he isn’t. Something like what he’s felt when her voice echoed in his ears,

_They’re each other’s soulmates._

However, that’s smaller than the other part, the one that knows they are tainted with the smell of smoke, and that Betty and Jughead _not_ getting to be happy is ultimately his fault. That’s when the guilt kicks in, a scar that will and probably can never heal.

He’s drunk, he decides, asking for the tab before Kevin can fill him in about _her_.

Back to the flat, lying in the dark, Archie closes his eyes, holding on to the ring around his neck, the one he keeps with his dog tags, another vital piece of information about who he is.

The tears blur his vision as he wonders if anything will ever happen to him again.

.

.

.

When Archie moves out of Josie’s apartment, leaving the keys in the mailbox as instructed, he ends up in Brooklyn, an out-of-this-world deal in a condo on Willow Street. The stored furniture comes from Riverdale in a truck—the old blue couch from the living room, portraits of the family the Andrews once were, the record collection kept in his garage for such a long time.

He adapts quite easily to the Brooklynite lifestyle, commuting every morning to wherever the job takes him, buying fruits and veggies in the local markets, sitting out on his fire escape, and watching the city lights twinkle in a distance.

Archie meets Haley in the hallway, on a Wednesday afternoon—she’s carrying heavy grocery bags, an apple falls from one of them and rolls over to his feet. She has golden-brown curly hair and sweet almond eyes, says she’s sorry for the mess when he runs over to help her, and it’s such a rom-com twist that he can’t really be numb to it.

Soon they’re bumping into each other in the elevator almost every day, exchanging pleasantries and giggles. The fact that she’s his neighbor adds some irony to it, but Archie has always been prone to these foolish, romantic things.

It takes them a month to fall into bed together. Archie doesn’t mind when she fumbles around his kitchen to make pancakes, the next morning, and it’s more than what he could say about the interchangeable string of girls he’s dated over the years since _that summer_.

There’s something about hazy mornings spent with her before one of them does the inevitable walk of shame back to their own place. She speaks three languages, reads before bed, wears soft clothes, and soft make-up, and she brings some vivid kinetic energy to Archie’s grey existence.

She never once asks about his scars, about the dog tags, about the ring around his neck. In return, he doesn’t ask a lot about her either, is content with getting to know the girl she is instead of the girl she was.

He takes her to dinner with Kevin, his new boyfriend Sean, and Josie and Alex. They talk about Riverdale very briefly, and for that Archie is glad. There’s something in Josie’s eyes when she looks at him, though, some unasked question that lingers, but Archie doesn’t try to answer it, his arm around Haley’s shoulders.

It’s four, five, eight outings with his old friends that start to bring questions up that weren’t there before. They laugh about Archie’s old Casanova ways and lame pick up lines, and Josie says, “c’mon, to be fair, he spent most of his time with Veronica,” and her name halts the conversation, makes Kevin shift uncomfortable in his seat, makes Archie avoid Haley’s eyes when she asks,

“ _Veronica?_ ”

Josie seems apologetic, changing the subject very quickly.

Later, in the dark of his apartment, Haley asks about her again. “Is Veronica the girl you were married to?”

“Married?” Archie frowns.

“The ring you wear around your neck. I’m not… I know it means something to you, so.”

Archie touches the ring around his neck instinctively, the band thick and golden. Haley doesn’t seem angry, just curious, so he decides she deserves a clarification.

“This isn’t a wedding ring. It’s just a ring. I… got it after a very dark period in my life,” he says, his hand heavy on her lower back. “A reminder that things can change. That _I_ could change.”

Haley kisses him after that and doesn’t ask him anything else.

.

.

.

Sometimes, often in those minutes before falling asleep or before he wakes up, Archie forgets to forget, forgets to let go.

It’s like he’s going to open his eyes and travel back before _that summer_ , in that garage, and he’s going to stop himself from doing the most incredibly pointless thing he could’ve done, and instead of kissing the wrong girl, he still has the chance to go back and press Veronica into some wall while they were arguing, stop her words with his teeth on her lips.

It’s the only nightmare he still has, that one thing he could’ve changed.

She’s in New York, naturally, and Archie has known that since forever, since the early days of still looking her up on social media, of torturing himself with her glossy smile, of looking for any hints of sadness in her carefully chosen pictures. This stopped after a while—after pills and sessions, healthy and unhealthy coping mechanisms.

But Veronica is a girl who _is_ a city, a girl who’s inevitable in said city—Barnard College Graduate, It Girl, the sole heir of Lodge Industries after Hiram Lodge passed away, probably five years too late—and Archie wouldn’t be able to avoid her, just another peasant in her reign.

He’s heard her name on the news, he’s seen her in the magazines Haley often leaves on his table, flicking through the pages, and pretending not to notice the photographs—Veronica Lodge, front row at New York Fashion Week. Veronica Lodge, supporting the League of Women Voters of NYC. Veronica Lodge, taking up another project that everyone thinks is impossible for someone under thirty.

Veronica Lodge, a girl—a woman—who’s so much more than the girl whose heart once got broken by him.

Archie doesn’t dare look at her for a long time.

.

.

.

When Haley tells him that she loves him on a rainy summer afternoon, Archie doesn’t know what to do. He’s so taken aback by the words he hadn’t heard anyone—except for his mother—say in such a long time. He remembers how _easy_ those words were for him once.

_I love you, Mom, I’m sorry you have to leave for Chicago; I love you, Betty, but I can’t give the answer you want; I love you, Jug, you’re like my brother; I love you, Dad, you can’t die on me._

_I love you, Ronnie._

_I can fix it. I love you._

“You don’t have to say it back yet,” Haley tells him, kissing his confused face. “You don’t have to say it back at all. I just thought you should know that this is how I feel.”

_You keep saying that. Stop, stop saying it._

He smiles and kisses her, pours meaning into it, wonders if he just should _lie_ and say _me too_ , or if he should just end this because he doesn’t know if he _can_ love her, if he _can_ love someone the way he once did. He doesn’t even want her to love him, doesn’t want to have that power, doesn’t want another bleeding heart in his hands.

“You make me very happy,” he says instead, because that’s not a lie, and it seems to be enough for Haley, at least for now.

.

.

.

Mr. Keller is the one who introduces him to _Habitat for Humanity_. His job with Andrews Construction has changed a lot now that he’s got a degree in construction management, something Haley pushed him to do as his first year as a Reservist came to an end. Tom thinks Archie will be pleased working as a volunteer for hundreds of people who could use some help. He thinks Fred would be proud.

Soon, he’s back to breaking rocks, for a good cause now. The people who volunteer with him are lovely, from all over the world; the families they are helping have a thing or two to teach about letting go.

It’s something that fills him with the sort of joy he’s known once, before _that summer_ , the feeling that he’s been doing something right, making people smile instead of crying. He spends long periods of his weekend in Staten Island, coming home later than usual, often exhausted.

But he wakes up and looks at the mirror, and he sees, somewhere in his reflection, an image of the person he can become.

.

.

.

It’s December, almost Christmas. He’s got a surprise for Haley, tickets to spend Christmas in Chicago with his mom—meeting the family seems like an important step, one that he can’t quite believe he’s willing to take, but they’ve been together for almost a year, it feels like the right time. However, Haley’s got a surprise for him too: a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, some words she needs to say.

“When I told you I loved you, I said you didn’t have to say it back,” she says, quietly, fiddling with the sleeves of her sweater, “but I didn’t expect you not to.”

Archie bites his lip. It’s the first kind of _relationship talk_ he’s had since before _that summer_ , and he doesn’t really know what to say. How honest should he be? How deep should he go? “I know. I just—”

“I know there’s someone else in your heart. You don’t talk about it, you don’t _show it_. I guess don’t even _think_ about it. But—I can’t keep doing this, Archie. And whatever it is… Whoever _she_ is, she deserves to know that you haven’t really moved on.”

Archie wonders, as he looks into her wet eyes, why the relationships he builds can’t be like the houses—brick over brick, cement, a steady foundation. He wishes he could say something to her that isn’t heart-wrenching, but he’s got nothing.

“She can’t know that.” He decides to be honest, at last. “We don’t talk anymore.”

“Maybe one day you will,” Haley reaches out and touches the tags on his neck, the ring over them. “A reminder that things can change, right?”

Archie’s throat constricts.

“I’m gonna spend the holidays with my sister. I’m down the hallway if you need anything.”

When Haley leaves, Archie realizes she’s already taken all her stuff that she had lying around at his place—the clothes, the candles, the magazines, the products in his bathroom—and that he didn’t even notice how she was withdrawing before even saying anything.

He sits on the couch and lets his head fall back, holding on to the ring around his neck, wondering if he’s been cheating on her with a _scar_.

.

.

.

He spends the holidays in Chicago with his mom and her wife, calls Reggie so they can catch up, and grabs drinks with Kevin once he’s back in the city, right after New Year’s Eve.

It’s snowy out.

“What even happened with you and Haley?” Kevin naturally wants to know after a couple of bourbon shots.

At this point, Archie isn’t sure if he’s got anything else to lose. “She thinks I’m still in love with some ghost from my past,” he twirls the amber liquor in his glass, not daring to say _her_ name out loud.

“Oh.” Kevin takes a beat to understand, the whole thing probably coming back to his brain like a flashback once he does. “ _Oh._ Why would she think that?” He makes a face.

It’s a funny face, and a funny question, so Archie ends up chuckling.

“Oh _no._ Really, Archie? _Still?_ ”

“I don’t know.” Archie shakes his head slowly and honestly. “I don’t. I—I don’t know her anymore. And even if I did, I don’t have the right to feel anything for her anymore,” he says, quietly.

He expects some kind of pep talk from Kevin, some advice that his former therapists probably would give—along the lines of _feelings aren’t a right or a duty, they’re not as controllable as you think they are_ —but his friend only stares at his glass for a while, before he says, “Why did you do it? You know… You and Betty. Why did that happen?”

_Why did we kiss, Betty? I can’t—I’m trying to understand, but—_

Archie has spent the past eight years trying to find an answer to that question, heavily in the earlier years, different scenarios playing in his head as he retold the facts over and over. _I cheated on the love of my life. She did nothing to deserve that, she loved me like no one else, and I betrayed her. With her best friend._

One of his therapists said, _do you feel unworthy of love? Is this why you push it away?_ Another one asked if he thought he deserved to be punished for all the bad things that happened to him.

But it’s always been hard to think that going for Betty, in that fleeting, imbecile moment, was a form of punishment for himself. Truth is, he was never good enough for either; Betty or Veronica. Except, when the whole thing happened, Betty made him feel less alone in his wrongdoing.

“What did Betty tell you?” It’s what Archie asks Kevin.

“Not much. Something about how you two got caught up in nostalgia since things were changing so fast, and everything blew up.”

Archie shrugs. “Maybe that was it. I don’t know. I never understood it.” His voice shakes. “I was absolutely in love with my girlfriend back then, I just—I thought—I felt like I had lost her already. I can’t explain.”

“I kinda thought… Don’t get me wrong.” Kevin touches his arm. “But I thought that Veronica’s reaction was so… _much_ , you know? I—I expected her to be angry, but the way she acted afterward, I never thought it would hurt so bad for her.”

“I broke her trust,” Archie explains, tears daring to pool in his eyes. “I broke her heart. I—she loved me, Kev. She loved _me_. With all the trauma and the confusion, the angry outbursts, the running away, the stupid songs I wrote, she loved all of it. She gave it all to me. So much more than I could’ve ever wanted, and I—I couldn’t even be loyal to her. It’s all she ever asked in return.”

“And Haley?”

It’s some other scene that comes back to his mind, another neighbor, another set of wet eyes, and the same question. _I’m asking right now, if you love me, Archie._

“I couldn’t give her the answer she wanted.”

.

.

.

Archie misses being around Haley, misses the companionship in a way that almost gets him knocking on her door in the middle of the night, but he stands still because missing Haley soon turns into missing _Veronica_ , which is something that has always been there however senseless it was to miss someone for almost a decade.

That’s what stops him from going next door.

So, he lets Haley go, lets their relationship go, lets that calm, Sunday morning happiness go, and channels everything into the project, into building things instead of destroying them.

The letter, the reward, comes in March, with the chilly Spring breeze and its pale blue skies. Devon, a fellow volunteer, is the one who opens it, reading it aloud to the crew: _Habitat for Humanity has been nominated for the Golden Halo Awards, North America’s highest honor for social initiatives—_ “We got nominated!”

“Oh, my God!”

“A Golden Halo!”

Jumping around with the other volunteers, in the small, cramped room they use as an office, Archie feels like a superhero of sorts— _Pureheart, the Powerful_ —someone people can count on, someone who isn’t going to hurt those who love him, someone who isn’t going to betray anyone.

His mom will be proud. His dad would be proud.

In the mirror, Archie smiles at his reflection, probably for the first time since he was sixteen.

.

.

.

The group decides Archie, being the best looking amongst them, should represent them in the meeting with the organization hosting the fundraiser. That’s how he ends up in a navy suit, heading uptown in an Uber instead of underground.

The building he’s directed to is high and important, pristine marble and golden accents. The receptionist gives him a name tag and directs him to the right elevator—the meeting is about to start, five or six minutes from now, but traffic in Manhattan is always a bitch—and he steps out on the eleventh floor when something happens to him.

_He sees her._

She’s outside a room, someone running through a file with her. Dark-framed glasses on her face as she reads, her mouth painted red, her hair a tad longer than he remembers, slick over her shoulders. She’s wearing an emerald silk blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt—and her face, _that face_ , the one he knew so well, all the ways it was different and the same.

Archie stops dead in his tracks, completely short of oxygen, and stares at her until her gaze drifts from the file and looks directly his way.

A brief second passes like loaded hours. He registers it all: the small parting of her lips, the surprise in her dark eyes, the way she takes off the glasses as she takes in the image of him, and how she blinks in bewilderment.

Her eyebrows still crease in the delicate way they’ve always done. Archie’s breath definitely hitches.

The person that was briefing her apparently sees him too. “Oh, Miss Lodge. This is Mr. Andrews; he’s with the HFH.”

He doesn’t know what to do except stand there, completely thrown back by the image in front of him. But Veronica Lodge has always been on the top of her game, so she shakes her head and her confusion is soon replaced with a small, professional smile. “We’ve met before,” she informs the assistant, or whoever that is. “Archie.” She nods at him, acknowledging.

“Veronica,” Archie says, although he isn’t sure if _he_ said it because the sound of her name is so foreign in his own voice nowadays.

Her face doesn’t betray whatever it is that it makes her feel.

Soon, he’s steered into a room, a room where she enters too, with a dozen other people. They start talking about the fundraiser, about the gala they’ll host for the award. Archie finds out Lodge Industries is pitching in with cash— _the biggest contributor,_ according to the chairwoman—and he sits there and wonders, unable to stop stealing glances at her, how can everyone just carry on with this meeting as if the Earth’s axis hasn’t just completely shifted.

He doesn’t catch Veronica’s eyes on him again, not until the whole ordeal is over. He’s commanding his legs and lungs to _stop_ shaking as he fiddles with his tie, when she approaches him, slowly and carefully, as if she was dipping her toes in cold water.

“So,” she says, eyes narrowing just slightly. “This is some coincidence.”

“Yeah. I’m—I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were—next time, I can ask some other colleague to—”

“That’s nonsense.” Veronica tucks her hair behind her ear, revealing the single pearl of her earring. Archie still remembers how she used to gasp whenever he bit her earlobe around the pearl, the way her back would arch. “Congratulations, you’re doing a great job for the community.”

Deep inside, he wonders if she’s being sarcastic if she means _look at you, helping people so you make yourself feel better for doing what you did to me,_ but there’s a softness around her eyes that opens a deep, sudden ache in the pit of his chest.

She’s genuine. She’s loyal and honest. She’s not doing this out of spite. She’s not doing this out of pity, either. She knows that whatever redemption he’s seeking runs even deeper, that it started to sink in when he heard a gunshot a certain Fourth of July. She’s always known him best.

“Thank you,” he says, wetting his lips. “It’s good to see you.”

Veronica smiles, bashful and quick, looking down before looking up. She looks healthy and happy, and Archie thinks it’s a privilege—the real award—that he gets to witness her smile, even if it makes absolutely no sense that she doesn’t _hate him_.

“I look forward to working with you,” she tells him, very politely, turning around to leave. Archie lets his gaze fall down her figure, heaving out a breath he thinks he’s been holding since _that summer_.

.

.

.

It’s strange, coming back home after seeing Veronica again. He takes the subway back because he needs the walk, needs the cool breeze on his flushed face, needs to understand _what_ , exactly, did all that mean.

She’s still, easily, the most beautiful girl—woman— he’s ever seen; pointed, fierce edges on her face, a witty quality to her smile, _perfect,_ simply perfect.

Archie had thought about Veronica for so long—who she was, who she could be now—but it was hard to remember anything other than the last image he had, her face wet from tears, her hair messy from his hands and pleads. And now, he’s seen her smile again, even if just for a second, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

The main feeling, he decides as he walks back into his flat, is guilt. He feels guilty that the brief meeting got his heart racing faster than anything else in the past eight years. Guilty that he’s ever even tried to be with other women, guilty that he never succeeded in doing so. That he could never give himself away. That he still irrevocably belongs to someone he’s not worthy of.

Is he even allowed to think that? Is he even allowed to have the slightest hope for a second (fourth) chance? What if this is it? What if this is the moment where he gets the chance to fix it, all of it?

.

.

.

Only three days later, Archie walks into the cramped HFH office to get the new assignment for his team and sees her again. He has barely recovered from the first time but there she is, speaking to Devon, her hair wavy today, the way it stays when she lets it air dry, a much more casual outfit although still perfectly put together.

It feels impossible, that she used to wear his clothes on rainy afternoons after school, her frame even smaller when engulfed by his oversized football t-shirts, her bare legs brushing against his under his plaid covers.

“Archie!” Devon greets, enthusiastically. “Ms. Lodge— _Veronica_ ,” he corrects himself, exchanging a glance with her that means they’ve already had a conversation about formalities, “is here to find out more about the project. She said you made a good impression at the meeting.”

Veronica’s shoulders shrink. Archie feels the slight flush on her face increase a tenfold on _his_ face. “It’s an important cause,” she explains herself. “Hi again, Archie.”

“Hi,” he mutters, his heartbeat pulsing on the base of his neck, eyes glued on hers until her eyelashes flutter, and she looks away.

“Archie, I got the new assignment for your crew. It’s a dilapidated house on Queens,” Devon, blissfully oblivious to their history, hands Archie the folder he was there to pick up to begin with. “We already have a potential owner on the waiting list, a single mother of two kids.”

“How bad is it? The house?” Archie tries to snap back into professional mode, trying to pay attention to what Devon explains about plumbing and the interior walls, hyper-aware of Veronica’s tantalizing presence in the room and in the corner of his eyes, even if she’s just watching them talk.

“I feel like we can get it done in five weeks,” Devon says, glancing at Veronica. “Maybe in time for the fundraiser?”

“That’d be lovely.” She smiles. “Devon, I think I took enough of your time already—I was just here to get to know the project a little better,” she says, getting up, and Archie thinks she might be explaining something to him.

“Well, are you doing the site inspection now, Archie?” Devon asks.

“Y—yeah, I’ll head up there right now.”

“Maybe you wanna join him, Veronica? I promise it’s a completely different feeling when you actually _see_ the house and what we have to do.”

She’s going to say _no_. Of course, she will—she’d never want to be alone with him, of all people. And who could blame Devon for asking? Devon doesn’t know about any of it, he doesn’t even imagine. There are absolutely no memories out there, no signs that he and Veronica dated, got so damn intertwined with each other, then fell apart after he destroyed everything they had. Even the pictures, they’re all gone. There’s nothing left between them but painful memories since even the good memories hurt. In fact, the good memories hurt more than the bad ones.

“Well, I do have a forty-five-minute window,” Veronica says, glancing at her phone and then at him. “I’d be delighted to see one of the sites. Let me call my driv—”

“Please, let us do the honor,” Devon gets the truck keys that, a second later, are thrown to him. “Archie will drive you back if needed, right?”

.

.

.

He expects her to object, to insist on calling her driver, but she doesn’t. That’s how five minutes later they’re together in the HFH blue truck, rolling windows down. Archie doesn’t know what to do, so he puts the address given to him in the GPS, and starts the car.

The radio turns on automatically, a lot louder than it should, some meaningless _greatest hit_ startling them both. He turns down the volume fast, glancing over at her, and they both end up chuckling.

“I guess Devon likes loud music,” Archie says, his face getting warmer and warmer when he hears her low giggling. He feels the muscles on his face melting at the sound and all the seasons that passed since he’s heard it.

They drive for six minutes in silence before Veronica speaks. “When did you start working with this?” She asks.

He struggles with the answer. The measurable time had always been such an unimportant factor. “Uh, about—about a year, I guess. Not that long.”

“And what do you do when you’re not building houses?”

Archie can hear the subtle smile on her voice. “I… Build houses,” he says, dumbly, making them chuckle again. “With Andrews Construction. Kevin’s dad, he expanded it all over the state, and I—now I’m responsible for the NYC unit,” he says, somewhere between proud and shy. A wave of inspiration hits him, and he takes a business card from the inner pocket of his jacket. “If you ever need a—” _hand_ , he’s about to say, but he stops himself, “—renovation.”

Veronica takes his business card, her nails painted in a deep plum shade, just like he remembers. “Thank you. That’s nice,” she comments, all politeness. Archie sees, in the corner of her eye, that she keeps the card in her purse. “I am really interested in the work you guys are doing. I was fascinated when I heard about it and, you know, Lodge Industries is always—I’m always looking for good causes to invest in.”

He isn’t ready for the whole career approach she’s taking, but he wasn’t ready for any of this—when he woke up this morning, he definitely didn’t think he’d be in a car with her, going somewhere.

He’ll talk about anything she wants to talk about.

“It’s—this is an amazing one,” he tries to answer and finds it easy because the project is what kept him going for the past months. “We build and renovate affordable, dignified houses for people who wouldn’t be able to afford them in the normal market, and—it’s a whole support system for those families.” He smiles, quickly glancing over at her. “It’s probably the best thing I’ve ever been part of.”

“Seems like you’ve found your calling,” she says, and when Archie looks again, she has her teeth sunk into her lower lip, always thicker than the top one. His eyes catch hers, but soon he needs to look back at the road. “Listen, I—I know this is a little strange. It’s been so long.”

Archie's smile fades, turns into a deep breath and a slow nod. _So long_. Eight years, about to be nine when summer rolls in.

She goes on, “You’re—tanned. Freckled.”

Archie raises his eyebrows, surprised with the remark. His heart beats loud in his ears as he wonders what _he_ could comment on that wouldn’t sound straight out of his lame old love songs. “I served in Guam for three years,” he says, after a beat. “At some point, the sun just… wins.”

“Oh, I know.” She shifts in the seat, uncrosses her legs, and crosses them again. She’s wearing black cigarette pants and yellow, high-heeled shoes. “About Guam, I mean. Kevin told me—when you came back.”

“You still talk to Kevin?” is what he asks, frowning. _You still talk about me?_ is what he means. All this time back in the city, going out for drinks with Kevin, not even once he mentioned that he and Veronica were still in touch; that she still cared whether he was dead or alive.

Veronica fiddles with the leather straps of the bag on her lap. “Kevin, Josie, _Choni_ …” She throws him the smallest of smiles. “Reggie, occasionally.”

Archie’s grip on the steering wheel increases, a lump forming in his throat as he tries to ignore that _Reggie_ was also talking to her all these years but never mentioned anything. He can’t hold it against him—it was part of their silent agreement.

He waits another moment, but she doesn’t say _Betty_ or _Jughead’s_ names. He wonders if she knows they got to try again—she probably does. He wonders what she thinks about it.

“I haven’t been back to Riverdale,” he says when he realizes she won’t carry on. He hasn’t. Not after leaving _that summer_. Nothing in that town belonged to Archie, not anymore, except… “Not even to see my dad.”

There’s a pang of guilt in his chest when he says that, but it’s such a familiar feeling that he doesn’t even take it into account.

“I… I was there. A few times,” Veronica murmurs. “When mine passed away.”

She looks out the window. Her raven hair flies away from her face. Archie notices how she’s fiddling with the pearl bracelet in her wrist. There’s a pearl on her ring finger too, a small one on a rose gold band, probably a matched set with the bracelet.

“I know.” His voice sounds heavy. “I was in Guam, but—”

Archie remembers the day Hiram Lodge died after fighting against his debilitating disease for so long. The news cycle unraveled on the television even in the middle of the ocean, followed the Lodge family all the way to Riverdale, showed glimpses of the funeral.

He remembers how he turned off the television before seeing anything that would _hurt_ and went to the boxing gym instead, fought himself until his arms gave out, gave himself another scar.

It’s weird that he also had to grieve Hiram, a man that never let him forget how worthless he’d always been, who kept repeating it like a mantra— _you are not good enough for my daughter, you are not strong enough for her, you can’t take care of her, you’re a phase, you’ll pass_ —until Archie almost unloaded a gun to make him shut up.

“Yeah. After that, I haven’t been back either.” She sighs.

They sit with their ghosts for a while, until Archie pulls over to the signaled address.

They stand together in front of the house, Archie’s hands in his pockets and Veronica’s hands on her hips, mirrored intrigued expressions.

The house has fallen into severe disrepair, the wood in the walls rotten and moldy, but there’s a quality that Archie sees in the front porch, in the steps that used to lead to the ripped-off main door.

“Maybe you’ll think I’m crazy, but I think it kinda looks like your house in Riverdale,” Veronica says.

“Yeah. It really does.”

.

.

.

Archie drives Veronica back to the building that holds Lodge Industries, down Fifth Avenue. They don’t talk about anything heavy, keeping the conversation within comfortable borders. The house, the family that intends to buy it, what Veronica could expect in terms of business if she really did invest in the project, what a Golden Halo Award could mean for them, how the fundraiser would be organized.

But still, she smiles at him when he drops her off, a hint of her old smile, one she shot him inside a closet at Thornhill so long ago, and it’s insane, how it builds something in him that he didn’t imagine ever feeling again.

“Thanks for the ride, Archie.”

“You’re welcome,” _Ronnie_. The old nickname stays on his tongue, though, because he can’t—he can’t dare say it. It was the last thing he said when she left him, _Ronnie_ , trying to take her wrist but never reaching it, never touching her again.

He’s content with the smile, he thinks. It’s enough for him.

.

.

.

It’s not enough for him.

Archie spends the next couple of days agonizing over images of Veronica he had tried to bury deep down, along with everything else.

He thinks about her smile, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the hug of her clothes on her curves. He closes his eyes and hears it as if it’s happened yesterday, the desperate gasp he’d sometimes manage to get out of her; feels the sting of her dark nails on his back.

He wakes up hot and sweaty from the most vivid dreams of her mouth on his neck, of her tongue on the bone behind his ear, of her clenching around him; resorts to cold showers until they don’t work anymore. He dares think about it, dares to come in his hand with her name rolling out of his mouth like he’s still some desperate teenager, _Ronnie_ , and he repeats it again, and again, _Ronnie, Ronnie, Ronnie_ until it’s left him limp, embarrassed, confused.

Veronica doesn’t show at the project again. She doesn’t call either, even though he very much gave her his number on the business card.

Archie feels ridiculous for thinking she would—they are just _working_ together, despite the brief reminiscence in the car. There was never any sign that she’d like to see him again for anything other than _work_. In fact, they didn’t even recognize that there was a time they both thought they belonged to each other.

Maybe all that died with his mistake. Maybe it got buried with all the ghosts back in Riverdale.

He realizes that he’s going through some sort of withdrawal. He’s longed for her for years and way too suddenly he had her in his reach again. Now, he’s feeling it one more time, the absence, like a never-ending hunger, like an open wound.

A scar that never was.

.

.

.

Little by little, his routine goes back to normal—work, friends, and even the occasional hookup that manages to distract him—Archie even sees Haley once, one day that he’s about to leave and she’s just arriving, and they smile briefly at each other from opposite ends of the same hallway. It doesn’t really hurt him to see her, but she walks into her place very fast.

But even though it’s the same old life, there’s something different brewing underneath it all. He feels it.

He’s been working on renovating the house in Queens steadily for four weeks, another one left for the fundraiser. He’s at the site, driving nails into walls when his phone rings. Archie answers it mindlessly and nearly drops the hammer on his foot when he hears the voice coming through the line. “Archie, it’s Veronica.”

“Hi. Hey.” He tries to scratch his hair, but his hand meets the helmet first. “Hello.”

She giggles. “That’s three different greetings.”

Archie feels his face heat up, letting out a sheepish laugh. “Yeah. Uh—what’s up?”

“I just—” she hesitates, “I wanted to be the one to tell you that Lodge Industries made its first donation to you guys. It’s not all that can be done, but at least—I hope it helps. So, even if you guys don’t win the award next week, you can count on us.”

“What? No, oh my God, this is incredible!” He beams, proudly, making people around him smile even though they don’t know yet the good news. “That’s huge. Wow, thank you, Ronnie,” he lets out before he can help himself.

There’s a moment of silence that makes his heart skip a beat. Perhaps calling her that is too much—maybe he shouldn’t have. He’s about to apologize or to say something else that’ll divert her from this lapse, but she beats him to it. “Well, thank _you_ , and the crew, for the incredible work, Archie Andrews.”

There’s just the tiniest hint of that old flirtatious undertone in her voice. Archie bites his bottom lip.

“I’ll see you at the gala next week,” she says before hanging up.

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.

.

He can’t possibly go through another week with such high expectations. The day after Veronica calls, Archie stops by a coffee shop and heads down Fifth, two large cups of coffee in hand.

He’s trying to go up unannounced, and it’s easier than he thinks it should be—he only needs to smile coyly at the girl at the front desk, saying he’s got a special delivery for someone upstairs, and they give him a name tag.

It should be behind him, flirting with a girl so he can get closer to another, but something about old habits.

He’s wary of overstepping, but it’s only fair, he thinks. She showed up at his workplace first. She called him.

It’s already a little past six, which means most of the employees have headed home, and those who are still there don’t really pay attention to him—wearing jeans and a t-shirt under a flannel shirt, he probably looks like the coffee delivery boy. Archie doesn’t take long to find Veronica’s office, the door opening on its own when he knocks on it.

He doesn’t expect to find Veronica not sitting at her desk, but on the floor, her legs tucked under herself as she almost disappears in a sea of white gift bags, all monogrammed with the logo for Lodge Industries. He frowns. “Hey?”

Veronica’s head snaps at the sound of his voice. “Archie?” She seems completely surprised, just as he is confused about the image in front of him, but she doesn’t seem _unhappy_ to see him, not at all. “Hey. I wasn’t—were you on my schedule?”

He shakes his head briefly, biting back a smile. “No, I was in the neighborhood and…” he raises the coffee cups. “I wanted to thank you, somehow, for the donation thing, so I wondered if you still have lack-of-caffeine headaches around six.”

There’s a shift in Veronica’s eyes, something he recognizes from years before—her face is taken over by the softest of smiles that widens until it turns into a bashful laugh. “You don’t have to thank me… But you did read my mind,” she says, and he takes it as a _yes_ , she accepts his company.

Archie hands her the coffee meant for her—black, two sugars, and he hopes it’s still the way she takes it—and joins her on the floor, trying to find a space to sit amongst all the gift bags. “What’s all this?”

She closes her eyes when she sips from her coffee cup. Still the way she takes it, definitely. “The gift bags for the gala benefit. I’m prepping them.”

“Oh. Don’t you have… I don’t know, people that can do this for you?” He asks over his own cup, taking a sip too. There’s so much he wants to know about her: how does she feel, twenty-six and running a whole empire, trying to live up to her legacy, trying to change it, at the same time? Veronica has always fascinated him, one way or another, even after they were lovers.

“I do, but I—I just like doing it.” She drinks a little more. “I finished all the complicated stuff for today and I don’t know, keeping things organized makes me relax,” she says, adding a card from a pile in the gift bag. Archie remembers that, too, watching her organizing her makeup drawers and color coordinating her closet. He’s always found it soothing to watch her doing those things. “I’m also possibly a control freak.”

Archie laughs, genuinely, and she follows with a slight tremble of her shoulders. Their eyes meet briefly over their cups and he wonders how he even went through a single day without being around her.

“Do you wanna help?” Veronica asks before he can say anything, taking another card and placing it in another gift bag.

Archie can’t remember if he had anything else to do today, he just says _yes_.

.

.

.

They finish their coffees and talk into the hours, about their past but not their painful past—just about the period in each other’s lives that they both missed. She talks about Barnard and all the majors and minors she ended up doing, and her MBA she got just a couple of years prior. She lived in France for a year. Archie somehow knew all about this, just because her life has always been so public, but it’s nice to hear about the small, personal details that the magazines could never guess.

She asks him questions too, about the Naval Academy, about Guam. Archie has fewer stories to tell, but they all circle back into the one thing he wants her to know, if only because she’s always seen the goodness in him, and he ended up letting her down.

“I… I’ve been trying to do better. To _be_ better.”

“That really suits you,” she says softly, looking at him for a longer beat, and Archie feels that she believes in him.

The office is almost empty once the gift bags are ready and verified. Archie gets up first and reaches out a hand to help her up. Veronica looks at his palm for an extra second—maybe he just imagines it, the subtle hesitation—but holds it, so he can help her stand.

The touch of her hand in his gets his heart jackhammering against his ribcage and he looks down at her once she’s up, so much shorter for being barefoot, closer than she’s been in eight unbearable years.

“I’m already done for the day, so…” she starts, taking a small step back, and the hand she takes to the back of her neck shows that the proximity affected her too. Or at least it’s what Archie hopes.

He’s not ready to say goodbye again. “Can I walk you home?”

.

.

.

It is quite a walk, from Lodge Industries to 79th and Park, almost two miles, but Veronica doesn’t complain, even with her high heels on. When he asks if she wants to take a cab, she throws him a look that in the past would’ve said, _I am a New Yorker, Archiekins_ , and starts walking, as graceful as ever.

“If it weren’t for that coffee, I don’t think I would have the energy to do this,” Veronica tells him when they stop in front of her building, having walked and talked non-stop for over half an hour. The night has already fallen around them, a million twinkly lights popping from the high windows. “Thanks for the company.”

Her hair flies in her eyes when the wind blows, and she moves it away from her face. Archie has to shove his hands into his pockets with how much they itch to touch her.

“No problem.” He smiles and, swallowing his nerves, “Listen, Ronnie, I—the fundraiser is coming, and—”

“Oh, hello, lovely.”

A guy that Archie doesn’t know—blonde, tall, well-built like some sort of superhero movie star—approaches Veronica suddenly, touching her waist. Veronica turns at him quickly, but her surprise fades, taken over by a bright smile. “Hey! You’re home already?”

“Yep, I was just at the store.” The guy smiles just as big and leans down to kiss her on the lips, a kiss she receives with a smile, reaching out to touch his scruffy face. Archie watches it like a motion picture, the way their lips are pressed together, the glint in both their eyes when they pull apart before they turn to Archie and the guy acknowledges his existence.

“Chris, this is Archie Andrews,” Veronica presses her lips together on a thin line. “The guy I told you about?”

“Oh, your friend from Riverdale, right? That you’re working with now?”

“Yeah. Archie, this is Chris Harris, my fiancé.”

Chris Harris gives him an easygoing smile, extends a hand for Archie to shake. “Hey, man. How’s it going?”

.

.

.

Veronica is wearing a black sleeveless dress, thin straps on her bare shoulders. He can see so much of her skin.

Archie has no idea why he’s here.

He has no idea why he accepted Veronica’s invitation—a text that crept into his messages this morning, **_do you wanna have dinner with us tonight? i'm gonna call kevin too_** , which he recognizes as an attempt to rekindle their friendship, as crazy as it sounds—but here he is, sitting across from them, watching Chris Harris with his arm around her and listening to the story about how they met, his thumb rubbing circles on her arm. They’re still waiting for Kevin, he’s running late.

Chris Harris is, actually, _Christopher Harris_ , the sort of guy Archie would like to think has nothing to do with Veronica and what she’d want in a man, except—that’s not what it is, not at all.

He’s not some Wall Street jackass that only got everything he has because he started with a trust fund. No, he fought his wealthy family for his dream of becoming a filmmaker, lived in Los Angeles, _and_ taught little kids how to surf after he got cut off. It was when he started listening to the kids, to their stories, to their parents, and filming a documentary about silenced voices.

“His first one got a prize in Cannes!” Veronica says, proud and excited.

“Mmm, Cannes got me an even better prize,” Chris tells her, planting a kiss on her shoulder, starry-eyed like every man who’s ever laid eyes upon her.

Before Kevin even arrives, Archie has already learned most of the Chris and Veronica tale—they’ve met in the south of France, his whole world stopped when she walked in, he knew she was the one instantly, “but it took me so much time to convince her of that!”

They’ve been engaged only for a couple of months. Their wedding will most likely happen next year, but they’re still settling on a date.

Maybe he’s a masochist, Archie concludes when he hears the word _wedding_. Maybe he likes the torment of it, the punishment—watching Veronica’s honest, loving smile, the one she used to direct to him, now directed to someone else. Someone who wouldn’t cheat on her with her best friend.

Archie tries not to, but he keeps glancing at Veronica, hoping to catch her off guard, for some sign—any sign—that tells him this isn’t it, that this can’t be it, but there’s nothing.

She’s happy. Happy to talk about their story, happy to be sitting at Chris’s side at the table instead of Archie’s, happy with her pearl engagement ring on her finger and her fiancé looking as devoted as he should be, leaning in to steal a quick kiss from her just like Archie would’ve if he was in his place.

And then it hits Archie that he’ll never do that again. He’ll never kiss Veronica again.

He won’t make her laugh on Saturday mornings by not letting her get out of bed, he won’t share a bed with her again, he won’t slide off her dresses, he won’t kiss her neck in the spot that makes her mewl, he won’t inhale the scent of her hair before falling asleep; he will never, ever, hear those three words from her again, and he’s no one to blame but himself.

“I have to go,” Archie says suddenly, through the sharp pain on his chest, taking his wallet, putting however many bills on the table.

Veronica looks confused, and he’ll probably apologize later, but right now he can’t be here. He can’t. It’s killing him. It’s unbearable. “But Kevin said he’ll be here in a—”

“I have to.”

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.

.

Back in Brooklyn, a few or more swigs from a whisky bottle later, Archie reaches for his phone, ignores any notifications that he doesn’t want to face just yet, and calls Reggie.

It rings endlessly before he picks up.

“Hey bro,” Reggie says, voice easy and cheerful, “you okay?”

“Did you know Veronica is engaged?” Archie asks abruptly, drunk enough not to waste any time with small talk.

The tone changes after Reggie takes a deep breath. “Yeah, man. I did.”

Archie feels weirdly betrayed, just like he did when he found out Reggie and Veronica were still somehow in each other’s lives. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Are you drunk?” Reggie sounds a little concerned. Archie just takes another sip from the bottle—as if that’d be enough of an answer. “Listen, Arch—you seemed happy with Haley back then, I didn’t… I thought it’d be better if you didn’t know.”

“Why?”

“Because… Because I felt like shit too, when I heard,” Reggie confesses, heaving out a breath. “And I didn’t want you to feel like that as well.”

It’s a good enough answer, Archie thinks through the haze in his brain. The ring is weighing against his chest. A reminder that things can change.

Well, things did change. She’s happy. That needs to be enough. It’s all he ever wanted for her anyway, and he is, beneath the hurt and the jealousy, so fucking glad that whatever he did back then wasn’t enough to stop her from being happy. That she fixed it, that she didn’t let it kill everything that made her such an incredible woman.

He stays in silence so long that eventually, Reggie asks, “Bro?”

“I—I think I still love her, Reg,” he says in a small voice, way too honest in the dark silence of his living room, eyes pricking. “I don’t think I ever stopped loving her. And fuck, maybe this is crazy because it’s been eight years and I should’ve stopped, right? How can I still—and—I wish—how does it stop? When does it stop?”

“You gotta let it burn, man,” Reggie says. “You shoved it down for so long. You spent the past decade trying to run from it—just feel whatever you feel, and one day it’ll be fine.”

.

.

.

The next morning, hungover and embarrassed, Archie answers Veronica’s concerned texts— ** _i'm sorry, i felt sick. hope u guys had fun_** —and contemplates never moving again until he does.

If he’s learned one thing, it's that life goes on, no matter what.

Veronica doesn’t answer him right away. The response only comes after a couple of days, the night before the fundraiser. Archie has just gotten home, having picked up his dress uniform from the dry cleaning, and he’s wondering if he should order food when there’s a knock on his door.

He frowns, wondering who it could be, and reminds himself that he needs to install a peephole in his door while he opens it.

“Ronnie?”

She’s outside, there straight from work, by the way she’s dressed, fiddling with her bracelet—the one that now he knows isn’t a matched set with her engagement ring. She seems as surprised as he is, that she’s there.

“Hi. I got your address from Kevin,” she explains, biting her lower lip. “I hope that’s okay.”

He looks at her and lets his heart hurt as he nods, giving her some space to walk into his home.

Archie watches her as she looks around for a little, taking in the space. Her eyes linger on the blue couch—she probably recognizes it—and on the portrait he has on a shelf, him and his dad at a baseball game, one of the last things they ever did together before he passed. Veronica walks over to the portrait, takes it in her hands.

“I miss him,” she says, quietly, putting the picture back in its place. Archie stands still, just looking at her, taking in how beautiful she looks with the orange sunset streaming through the window. Just feeling it. Her absence, his dad’s absence, all turned into one crazy feeling. “When—when I was in Riverdale, for my father’s funeral, I—I visited him. Prayed.” She doesn’t really look at Archie, a hint of warmth on her cheeks.

“Thank you,” Archie mutters.

She roams her eyes through the living room, probably searching for a way to start another topic. She leaves her purse on the couch, tucks her hair behind the ear. “Chris liked you.”

His breath hitches in a laugh despite himself. “He seems like a nice guy.”

Veronica smiles a little bit. “I didn’t—I think I pushed it a little. I shouldn’t have invited you to hang out with us… So soon. But I guess,” she shrugs, “I think I missed you.”

Archie feels his body softening, his muscles losing up. He doesn’t know how he manages not to fall on the ground. “Does… does Chris know?” _About us_ , he wants to say but doesn’t find the courage.

Veronica straightens her shoulders, tilts her chin up. “Not all of it. He knows we dated. And he also knows I loved someone once. That I loved him with all of me,” her throat bobs when she swallows. Archie can’t help the tears that pool up in his eyes. “I’m not sure if he’s made the connection, though.” She smiles a little again.

“Ronnie—”

She shakes her head, doesn’t really let him go on. “When we saw each other again—that wasn’t so easy, was it?” Her eyebrow quirks just the slightest. Archie nods, the corner of his lips pulling up at the sight. “I kept wondering what it meant, you know? That after all this time we’re just—working together. And today it hit me that… I think there’s something you need to know.”

Veronica takes two careful steps in his direction. There’s still a lot of space between them, but Archie can see the shine in her eyes. He just keeps looking at her, doesn’t say anything.

“I forgive you,” she says, her voice reaching that softness that back then was only ever meant for him. “We were stupid, scared kids, in way over our heads, and—”

It’s Archie’s turn to shake his head. “No. No, that’s not an excuse for what I did. Ronnie,” he sniffs, “if I could—if there was _one thing_ I could change, I’d never—I’d never do it, I’d never—” He blinks, aware of the tears leaving his eyelids. “And you can’t just forgive me, because—”

There are tears in her eyes too. “Oh, Archiekins,” she says with affection, like when they were sixteen and all it took was for him to say something silly or romantic for her to sigh warmly. “But I did. I already have. I knew I had forgiven you when I visited your dad and I remembered how fucked up things were back then, but seeing you again, I—” She slowly reaches out and wipes away the tears on his cheek. Archie closes his eyes at the tender touch, more tears coming down. “We can’t change what happened back then, but we can—you said you’re trying to do better, and I can see it. You _are_. You are doing better,” the soft pad of her thumb catches another salty tear, “now it’s time for you to forgive yourself.”

“Ronnie, can I—can I hold you?” He asks in a strangled voice. He’ll step away if she says no, he just—

Veronica brings him closer, wraps her arms around his neck. The feel of her warm body is so foreign and familiar at the same time. Wrapping his arms around her after eight years, it’s like finding a piece from a puzzle that’s been missing since _that summer_. _God, I love you,_ he thinks as he lets his face fall in the curve of her neck, taking in the scent of her hair. Her hands fall to his shoulders and she holds on tight, and Archie lets his tears run freely.

Veronica presses her fingertips to his back. They stay like this for long, long minutes, and she only moves when he moves, when he pulls apart with a subtle kiss on her temple. He dries his face, and sees her doing the same, their eyes red-rimmed from all the emotion.

“I should go,” Veronica says afterward, still wiping tears away from her cheek.

“Okay,” Archie says, trying to pull himself together. He smiles at her then, as happy, and genuine, as he can be in this moment. She smiles back, getting her bag and walking towards the door. “Let me open that for you.”

He does that. She shoots him a look, her makeup slightly smudged from the crying, and Archie’s heart swells.

“Ronnie?”

She turns around. She’s given him so much more that he could even ask for, but he just—he needs to _know_.

“Do you—do you love him?”

Her face softens. “Yes,” she says, and he knows she means it. “It’s… different. From you and me,” she holds onto the strap on her bag. “It’s…” She struggles with whatever it is on her mind. “Just different.”

For some reason, both Haley and Betty come to his mind. He thinks he understands, even if his throat is hurting.

“But I couldn’t have loved him if it wasn’t for you,” Veronica carries on, making him look up at her. “If you hadn’t been brave enough to break through the ice, if you hadn’t showed me—you taught me all of it, Archie. You fixed it.”

He sniffs again, and it makes him chuckle, embarrassed that his eyes are filling up again. She laughs briefly with him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at the gala?”

“I’ll be there, Ronnie.”

.

.

.

(he will be there.

he will drink champagne even if he doesn’t really like it, he will enjoy time spent with his friends from the project, he will be proud when he sees the HFH between all the nominees, so many amazing people gathering to do some _good_.

veronica will be wearing a yellow dress, so beautiful against her tan skin, complicated straps on her back. chris will greet him like he’s some sort of old friend, and archie will hate him and be grateful for him all at once, such a strange feeling.

he will watch from his table as veronica and chris dance to a slow song, a song he and veronica danced to once, before things fell apart— _and time goes by so slowly… and time can do so much._

he will feel it, underneath the pain, underneath his military dress uniform, the weight of the dog plates around his neck, the weight of the ring, and all of the scars that are hidden by structured fabric.

a reminder that there’s a story, and that he’s survived it. they both did.

a reminder that things can change.)

**Author's Note:**

> Any ideas of what is this ring that Archie keeps around his neck? 💙


End file.
